Raising the Flag
by SaraiEsq
Summary: Stoker has a problem on Memorial Day.


**Raising the Flag**

=+++= / +====

The chiming of the clock in the ornate bank building across the street startled Mike Stoker. A quick glance at the watch on his wrist confirmed the time; a professional assessment of the fire ground before him told him it would be about another hour or so before they might be released from the scene. _That'll be too late._ He smacked his gloves against his thigh in frustration.

Practically speaking, he told himself, it was not at all important. No lives would be lost, no property damaged; in fact, most people passing the station would never even notice the task was undone. But in terms of Mike's sense of duty and honor, completing this particular task in a timely manner – on this day of all days and this year of all years – was vital.

"_Stok_er!" The shout brought Mike's head around with an almost painful suddenness. The extra emphasis in Cap's voice meant he'd probably called for his engineer at least once before and Mike castigated himself for getting distracted, even as he moved quickly toward Hank Stanley. There were enough white-striped helmets on the scene to make him grateful Hank stood out – and above – most crowds.

"Sorry, Cap," he said as he presented himself to the lanky officer.

"Chief says we can start breaking down our lines," Hank said after a glance at Mike's face. He'd become adept at reading the faces of his men in the years they'd been together and he noticed the subtle tightening of a muscle in the younger man's jaw.

"Right, Cap," Mike replied with a nod and started to turn back to the engine to get started. _I'll just do it when I can, I guess._

"Mike." Hank's voice was like a warm hand clasping his shoulder and pulling him to a stop.

"Sir?"

"There a problem?"

"No. Not really." Mike didn't actually sigh but Cap heard it in his voice nonetheless.

"Out with it." Hank's actual hand grasped his shoulder briefly. It didn't exactly open the floodgates, but a few words were allowed to trickle out.

"Do you know what today is?"

Hank stopped himself from providing the obvious answer – "Monday" – since he was sure Stoker wasn't in the mood for a smart aleck response. He meant more than just the fourth Monday of May. _Ah. _"Memorial Day?" Mike nodded. "And?" Hank prompted.

"By the looks of things here, we won't get back to the station until well after noon." Stoker gestured with his arm toward the scene of the apartment fire they'd been working for the last two hours. A resident's poor decision to grill _inside_ his apartment – to avoid being fined for grilling on his patio – had led to three units being destroyed and all eight units being damaged beyond habitability. Thankfully, the smoke alarms had worked, the residents had evacuated, and the injuries had been minor.

Cap continued to look at Mike, not sure what his point was, then prompted him. "And?"

"The flags, Cap. I need to raise the flags at noon." Mike said it quietly but with an intensity that surprised Hank.

Until he remembered.

"I can't release you from the scene, Mike, but if you want to make a phone call, see if you can get someone else to take care of it for you, go ahead."

"Thanks, Cap. I'll be quick." Stoker turned and jogged back to the engine. He opened the door and reached for the roll of dimes the engineers at 51 had agreed to keep under the driver's seat for emergency phone calls. Most of the time the radio was more than sufficient but it never hurt to be prepared.

Ten minutes later, Mike replaced the roll, pulled on his gloves, and set to work breaking down the hoses, mind at ease. Chet and Marco exited the building together not long afterward and, after storing pike poles and axes they'd been using, began to assist him. They finished the job quickly and, while the linemen sat on the back bumper and sipped cool water, Mike sought out Captain Stanley.

"All picked up, Cap," he reported formally when he found Hank in a gaggle of fire captains.

"And that other matter?" Hank asked, mindful of the chief's presence.

"Taken care of, sir." The upward curve of Mike's lips indicated his satisfaction with the matter's resolution. Sam Lanier's promise something would be done was tantamount to it being done already.

"Good," Cap replied, adding, "I'll be along shortly." Mike nodded and returned to the engine.

=+++= / ++===

Vince Howard acknowledged the call from Dispatch to TX the station and pulled up to a payphone outside a grocery store. He scribbled down the number provided by the watch officer, hung up, and dialed again. "Sam? It's Vince. What's up? … Uh-huh. … Right. … Yeah, I can do that. … Just around the corner in fact. … No problem. … Thanks, you too."

When he arrived at Station 51 a few minutes later, Vince pulled into the lot and turned around so he would be able to leave quickly if a call came. It was still about ten minutes before noon; the veteran officer prowled the parking lot to kill time then headed to the front of the station.

An old man with white hair stood near the flagpole, leaning on a cane. Despite the broad shoulders, the man looked frail and every bit his age. The way his clothing – dark blue cardigan over a white shirt and neatly pressed tan khakis – hung from his gaunt frame suggested he had recently lost quite a bit of weight. At the sound of Vince's boot scraping along the pavement, the octogenarian looked up and began the process of straightening himself.

His bright blue eyes latched onto the police officer. The frank, open gaze reminded Vince of someone he knew. "Can I help you, sir?" he said, gravelly voice polite but laced with authority.

"Just waitin' fer my grandson," the man replied. "I'm supposed to meet him here. He's a fireman," he added when Vince's eyebrow remained arched in curiosity. "There's not a problem is there?"

"No, sir."

"Then, if you don't mind me askin', why are _you_ here?"

"I was asked to stop by and raise the flags at noon, since the crew'll be on scene for a while longer."

A smile creased the old man's face. _I knew I could count on you, Mike._

=+++= / +++==

"Is it time yet, grandpa?" The boy's treble voice was filled with excitement.

"Not quite," Raymond Stoker replied. "Be patient." He watched the sandy-haired ten-year-old try not to fidget, with only moderate success, and allowed himself a small, proud smile. "Are you sure you can reach the rope alright?"

Mike looked at the cleat on the flagpole in his grandfather's front yard. It was above eye-level for him but not by much this year. He touched the halyard above the top of the cleat and turned to his grandfather for approval. The old man nodded and Mike returned to his side to wait, running over the instructions in his mind, his grandfather's voice narrating. _At the stroke of noon, step forward. Grasp the both lines of the halyard above the cleat with one hand to keep the flag steady. Slip the tail end of the rope off the cleat and unwrap it. Make sure there are no twists or snags in the halyard. Grab the ascending line. Watch the flag as you pull the rope just a few inches, to make sure it's going the right way. Then raise the flag – briskly but smoothly – all the way to the top. Keep the lines taut and rewrap the cleat – figure 8s, remember. Step back. Pause in respect before going about your business._

"It's time, Michael." The boy stepped forward. Eight of his grandfather's neighbors – veterans of the war to end all wars, of the one after that, of the forgotten war – came to attention with him and saluted until the deed was done. For the rest of the day, seeing the red, white, and blue banner snapping freshly in the breeze gave the boy a sense of pride and rightness.

=+++= / ++++=

"It's time, officer." Vince Howard glanced at his own watch and nodded to the solitary veteran. One arthritic hand clutching the cane for support, Raymond Stoker drew his other trembling hand up to salute, sensing his brothers-in-arms standing with him even now.

=+++= / =+++=


End file.
